Glory to the Vanquished
by silver ruffian
Summary: Dean makes sure he'll never be alone again. AU Very dark fic


Title: Glory to the Vanquished (Gloria Victus) 1/1

Type: AU, very dark fic

Rating: R. Definitely R. Special Hell R.

Characters: evilDean, Sam and John Winchester, YED, Gordon Walker,

Bobby Singer (mentioned)

Pairings: Dean/YED; Dean/John

Warnings: Cursing, violence, mild het sex, m/m sex (dubious consent), weirdness.

Timeline: pre-Pilot (right after Sam goes to college)

Spoilers: Hunted, Something Wicked

Summary: Dean makes sure he'll never be alone again.

Author's Notes: This is a very dark fic, possibly thedarkest thing I have ever written. Proceed at your own risk.

**One **

Dude's name is Gordon Walker. Good hunter, or crazy as a shithouse rat; it depends on who you talk to. They shake hands, skin to skin, good solid grip, and Dean doesn't flinch as the images explode behind his eyes. He tastes blood in the corner of his own mouth as Gordon hits him in the face with the rifle butt. The boobytrapped grenade in the other room goes off and the blast wave slams into Dean from behind, singeing the hair at the back of his neck. He pulls frantically against the ropes holding him tight in the chair, and he screams out anyway (SAM!) despite the gag Gordon tied tightly in his mouth. He sees Sam, bruised and bloodied. It all blurs away in a second or two, and all Dean does is blink. Slowly. He's gotten pretty good at hiding.

"We need to check out the roof," John Winchester rumbles as he hands Dean his copy of the blueprints, and Dean nods. He makes sure their fingers brush, just a touch, which is more than enough. Dean doesn't see anything but the two of them hunting over in Gary, Indiana a few days from now, and it's a relief.

Section B7 is the one they're looking for. Worker died during construction, his body cut up by a runaway steel cable. Rumor has it a part of him was emtombed in concrete up there by accident. Whatever it is, it's gotten eleven people to jump off the roof in the last two years.

Ten stories up, Dean and Gordon separate from John. Dean hands the roll of blueprints off to Gordon. Gordon's smiling. "So…John Winchester. The great man himself." Damn fool acts like he's just met the fucking pope.

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. "Geez, dude. Idolize much?" He glances over, waits until John disappears behind that massive air conditioning unit on the far side of the roof.

It's almost too easy. Gordon's unrolled the blueprints and has his head down when Dean walks up behind him. He fists the back of Gordon's jacket with both hands, swings him around, and Gordon's feet are step-stuttering over the ledge, dangling in mid-air before he even realizes it. Dean lets go, steps back, and our good friend Mr. Gravity takes over.

Gordon curses all the way down.

They get the hell out of there before the cops come, of course, since Gordon's swan dive was witnessed by the noonday lunch crowd on the street. Dean's behind the wheel of the Impala, observing the speed limits and traffic laws while his dad makes some phone calls. He calls one of Gordon's friends, and then the owner of the building, an old Marine buddy from 'Nam. Just before Gordon went airborne John located Section B7; he used a pendulum and pinpointed the remains there.

They'll come back tonight with heavy duty protective amulets, so the damn thing won't crawl into their heads as they drill apart the concrete and salt and burn what's inside. Dean thinks the whole damn thing is pretty fucking hilarious. He's not giving anything away, though, he never has, so he looks tired and disgusted with himself instead and when his dad tells him there was nothing he could've done to save Gordon, he manages not to laugh in John's face.

**Two**

In Tallahassee, Florida they hunt down a golem. Dean holds the fucker off with a Hassidic relic while John sets up the candles and the altar. John lights the last candle, and turns to Dean with a half-smile: "Take him out, son." Dean pulls his pistol with special loads out from under his jacket and blows the bastard straight back to hell with one headshot.

After the damn thing dissolves into chunks of dried up bloody clay John puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, smiles, and tells him "Good job." The t shirt Dean's wearing is thin enough, so reading John shouldn't even be a problem, but sometimes it is. This is one of those times.

Going thru the day blind like that, not knowing what tomorrow morning will bring bothers the hell out of Dean sometimes.

She comes to him in his dreams that night, whispers that it's not time yet as she takes him. He runs his fingers thru her long blonde hair, nips at her smooth skin with his teeth and paints the bitemarks with his tongue, and he feels at peace somehow, in a way he hasn't felt since he was a little kid.

When Dean wakes up in the morning John's still there.

A week later they're in New York City, chasing a bruja.

Dean's hands shake slightly as he nails her with a stake made of yew wood. He's wearing gloves but it doesn't seem to help when he lifts her carcass up so he and John can salt and burn her behind that dumpster in the alley. His fingertips ache with the screams of her victims.

Two weeks later, northern Michigan and three very fast, very pissed off dogmen.

Dean doesn't like the couple they're protecting. The guy looks at Dean and John with his nose turned up like he's smelling a gas leak, and the girl won't fuck Dean, so he's lost all interest in trying to protect her. If his Dad wasn't around he wouldn't even bother. She'd have to be a hell of a good fuck for him to risk life and limb for, and even if she did screw him, he'd still think twice about putting himself in harm's way for her.

John's watching so close that Dean can't do anything about it, like he did a few other times before on other hunts. His dad's damn good, legendary, and Dean's not about to fuck himself up like he did in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, which is pretty funny when you think about it, because he didn't mean to fuck up_ that_ time. Dean was nine years old, and he'd just stepped out of the motel room for a minute. He didn't mean anything by it, just needed some air, some time to himself, _for_ himself, and that shtriga almost got Sam. Dean had never seen his Dad so angry, and John ignored him for a whole solid fucking month. Since then Dean decided he has to pick his spots, and this ain't one of them. They wait in the cabin for Fido and his two buddies to show up.

Regular lead ammo works just fine.

**Three**

Most nights in his dreams she moves like rolling ocean waves beneath him, and her yellow eyes darken each time she comes. He plunges himself into her sweet wet heat and the images of cities burning and streets running red with blood makes him feel wired and calm at the same time. When he inhales her breath his own green eyes flare yellow. The sound of the flames roar and echo in his ears and he hears whispers, words he can't recognize. She presses her full lips to his willing hungry mouth and paints sigils all over his bare skin with her talented tongue. She talks to him, and Dean listens to her.

He tells himself he doesn't, but he remembers every word she ever said.

Two months after Sam left they're having lunch at a roadside diner just outside of Louisville, Kentucky. John passes Dean the salt shaker. Their fingertips touch for a brief second, and that's all it takes for Dean to see the motel room they'll be staying in later that evening. It's just before dawn the next day, and John's dressed, moving noiselessly, catlike in the darkness, his duffel on his shoulder and the keys to the Impala in his pocket. Dean sees himself still asleep in bed, and he knows that when he wakes up and discovers John's ditched him he'll stay in that room until John comes back. He wasn't given a direct order to stay put, but he'll do it just the same. Dean's feeling too numb inside to hate himself even for that.

So he nods and pretends it's all okay and later on that evening he slips the glass jar and the spell book out of his duffel and into his jacket pocket when he goes out to get dinner. The worm in the jar looks dead, all dried up and not moving, but Dean isn't fooled.

Fucker bites him_ hard_, like it's pissed off and making up for lost time.

Two sleeping pills go into John's bottle of beer with the take-out food, and that's the only time Dean feels anything like fear. He knows how lethal and tricky his dad is, knows if he fucks this up he definitely won't get a second chance. So Dean sits on the bed cleaning guns, sharpening knives, and he feels safer with the weight of a weapon in his hands. It doesn't take long before John's eyes shutter close and he face-plants into the tabletop, cushioned by the journal.

Dean still waits five more minutes before he moves. When he does, John's limp, dead weight, and even with all Dean's strength it takes some effort to lift him up and stretch him out on his bed.

The thing in the jar is fat, pulsing and slimy. It's impatient. It pushes up against the jar lid as he unscrews it. He upends the jar, dumps it out on John's shoulder.

Dean goes back to his bed, and he cleans all the guns and sharpens every knife they have. He doesn't look up, not even when he hears this squishy wet sound as the worm flattens itself and pushes its way past John's slack lips. Dean hums "Some Kind of Monster" to calm himself when John gurgles and he still doesn't look up when John trembles so hard the bed frame shakes.

**Four**

Shit hasn't changed, not really. Dean still leaves John alone to get food, to do research at the library, to pick up supplies. They can be apart for hours at a time, and sometimes when that happens for too long Dean feels a slight tickling at the back of his skull. He feels like he's standing on the knife edge of a massive black hole then, and his balance is all shot to hell. His heels go up, and his toes dip down, and he closes his eyes, throws his head back and raises his arms out to his sides. There's a part of him that wants to surrender to it, and it'll be a sweet relief after all this. That sliding feeling stays with him until he walks back into the cabin or motel room or where ever the fuck they happen to be staying that night, and he feels weird and spaced out until he sees John hasn't gone anywhere. Then Dean feels like he's standing firmly on solid ground.

Until the next time.

Out in public John takes charge, same as before. He even ignores Dean on occasion, other times snaps orders at him, but they know each other so well that Dean already knows what John wants before he says it. Dean's the good son, the one that stayed. He's got John's back, always, and now he's pretty sure John's got his. They don't talk about Sam at all; there's no pull in that direction.

The days roll on the same as before. They drive, interview people, and hit the books, and they hunt and kill every evil thing they can find. But once they're alone for the night John pushes Dean up against the wall or down on the bed with a growl, and his hands slide down Dean's taut belly and over his back, and Dean melts into John's touch like he's been waiting for it all his life.

He can't get enough of John's mouth. The taste of it is familiar, but he can't place it. Wet mouth sounds and the low gritty rumble of John's voice echoes all through Dean, rattles his spine, strums each and every feverish nerve ending as John endlessly kisses and licks him. John knows all the right spots: the pulse point underneath Dean's jawline, the soft thin skin where Dean's neck meets his shoulder, the back of Dean's neck. When John strips his clothes off the rustle and slide of fabric against his overheated sensitive skin, the feel and roughness of John's callused fingers makes Dean instantly hard. All he can see when they touch is what John's going to do to him, and it goes on for hours.

John sometimes takes his time stretching Dean. Sometimes he doesn't. Pain becomes pleasure, and Dean doesn't mind. They shower together, and Dean's back is pressed into the tiled wall so hard it leaves marks and ridges on his water soaked skin. John licks and bites at the slippery wet hollow of Dean's throat, bruises that highly fuckable mouth with his own, while his broad fingers gently stroke the sensitive skin underneath Dean's balls. Sometimes Dean's on his knees, but mostly it's John. Dean stares directly into John's eyes as John claims him. Dean's open, not hiding anything anymore, and John always smiles a little when he sees that.

Sometimes Dean sees this look on John's face, and it's always when they're alone. John's eyes get confused, and the skin around his eyes crinkles slightly. He looks like he's struggling, trying to rise up from the depths of God knows where, clawing his way back to reality. His broad shoulders twitch and jerk. His mouth trembles and his voice is always rough, confused.

"Dean…son…please…"

Dean pointedly looks away and ignores John like a cat until it passes.

Every single time.

One day Dean looks up and sees his death in John's eyes.

Sam came in from Stanford, but there wasn't any funeral. It was done quietly, weeks later, with the help of Bobby Singer and a few other hunters. They stood and watched the funeral pyre blaze up into the night, and a day or so later Sam drove out to Mary Winchester's headstone and quietly dug a hole, placed the urn with the ashes inside and covered it up under the manicured green grass.

Dean sat in the Impala and watched Sam's every move.

During the attack Dean's right arm was broken in three places. John stabbed him twice in the chest and left leg and broke two ribs before Dean shot him twice in the heart with the pistol. The neighbors heard the noise and called the cops. Dean was under suspicion, of course, but there seemed to be a higher power looking out for him; the cops didn't look in the trunk of the Impala and the only weapons they found were the knife and the gun. The gun was registered to John and was as clean as a whistle, no connections to any criminal activity. The autopsy report on John Winchester indicated that he was under the influence of some sort of weird drug, and Dean was never charged.

Self-defense. Case closed.

Sam looked horribly young and defenseless when he came to see Dean in the hospital. When Sam brushed his hand across his forehead Dean felt his brother's guilt and confusion even thru the haze of morphine. Sam's fingers shook, and his touch didn't burn. It felt warm and familiar, and Dean struggled up thru the drug-induced fog, surfaced just long enough to open his eyes and look at Sam.

Sam still wanted normal, though; Dean could see that.

"Dean?"

"….S-Sam-my…."

"Bobby called me," Sam said hoarsely. "Dean, what the hell happened?"

"…d-demon…got…D-Dad…" Which wasn't _exactly_ a lie, anyway…

The broken, dazed look on Sam's face was priceless. It was something Dean could use.

He patted the top of Sam's hand with numb, clumsy fingers.

"S'okay, Sammy. S'okay."

_Never should have left, bitch_, Dean thought hazily to himself, and there was a moment when he actually thought he'd said the words out loud.

Sam slept in a chair by Dean's bedside that night.

These days Dean's still pale, thinner than he was before, and the heavy stubble on his face reminds Sam of Dad. Dean doesn't trust his hands with a razor, not just yet. It would be a bitch if he slit his own throat accidentally after all he's been thru. He has trouble getting around, but he's getting better, and the doctors say there's no reason he can't make a full recovery. They're staying at Bobby Singer's place until Dean gets back on his feet. Sam hovers around him like a mother hen, and Dean lets him. He fusses every once in a while, just so Sam won't get suspicious.

Dean survived John. One good sign. Sam came back. Another good sign, just like she told him he would months ago. She told Dean he can't live alone, and she was right. He wasn't meant to. She has plans for him, and others like him.

And Sammy.

Dean knows he's a freak. And everyone who loves him, leaves him.

But not _this_ time.


End file.
